Presently, in such a whisper as denotes respectful confidence, the Parson broke silence.
"Three inches?" he asked, with the utmost concern.
"And a quarter," was the reply. "Twenty-two score and may-be a pound over. The slot was less than an hour old at sunrise."
"Rights?" asked the Parson.
"A warrantable deer," answered Rube, and each mused in silence for more than a minute.
"It's a pity," observed the Parson, after a pause, "there's no knowing where he may get to by next week. These heavy deer travel a long way when they're not hurried. It's hard to say where he may be when we want him. There ought to be no Sundays in the hunting season."
So self-evident a proposition seemed not to require assent; Red Rube held his peace, and looked at the empty cider-jug. Taking the hint, Gale entered the house, and returned with it refilled. The old man's eye glittered, and he indulged in another pull. It seemed to loosen his tongue. "That be main good zider," said he, shortening his reins and applying his one spur to the pony's ribs, as though to depart, but turning in his saddle, with an after-thought for a few last words.
"I wur down Lapford way yesterday," said he, with a chuckle, "and hoam by Rose Ash. I larned reading, Pa'yson, three-score years ago and more, afore I took to the deer. There's money to be made by reading, I tell'ee, and money means drink."
"What do you mean?" asked Gale.